


Break Through

by gleefulmusings



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Songfic, Surprise Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleefulmusings/pseuds/gleefulmusings
Summary: Will demands Kurt drop the mask and sing with everything he's got. The outcome was most unexpected.





	Break Through

**Author's Note:**

> This was, I believe, the second fic I wrote in the fandom, way back when the first season was airing. It received a lot of positive response, which I was honestly not expecting. It convinced me to keep writing in the fandom, a decision I'm happy worked out.
> 
> I decided it was time I brought it here, so I dusted it off and did some much-needed editing. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Will was exceedingly pleased with how this week's assignments were unfolding and took some small measure of pride in the quality of the performances. He knew the kids had been reticent when he had explained the week’s assignment was about expectations, self-imposed or otherwise, and shattering them.

They were all good singers, he had said, but confessed he had made the process too easy on them, shoehorning them into choral roles that, while functional, were not truly representative of their individual talents. That was over.

He knew they could sing well as a group, but he had been negligent by not focusing on their personal growth as well. He had been too distracted by the whole, ignoring the parts which comprised it. He had thus canceled rehearsals for Regionals, ignoring Rachel’s panic attack, insisting they were more than prepared. Instead, each would be responsible for preparing a solo that would best showcase their voice.

He had been surprised when he was met with considerable resistance, except, of course, from Rachel, and realized this was a problem of his own making. His shining a constant spotlight on Finn and Rachel had led the others to question their own abilities. It shamed him.

His saving grace had been Kurt, whom he had conscripted into service immediately following the announcement.

He had watched them all carefully during these past months and knew Kurt had an amazing ear, an instinctive understanding of each member and the types of songs which would best highlight their vocal strengths, as well as how to arrange them. Will felt he had been terribly remiss in not encouraging Kurt to do more with the group.

Rachel's musicality was almost the closest match to that of Kurt, but she was far more focused on her own performance. Will knew Rachel loved the club and wanted them to do well but, in a fundamental way, she saw them as an extension of herself. She could admit that Kurt, Finn, and Mercedes were talented, but she didn't see the others as equals. Kurt very much did and wanted them to do well not only for the sake of the group, but for themselves. His love of music and the power it engendered within the artist surpassed his love of performance.

Will had asked Kurt to work with those who were willing, to which Kurt had reluctantly agreed. He knew Kurt had fought tooth and nail for the selections, thoroughly disregarding the ideas the others had originally considered.

Quinn had argued for a much simpler piece, believing her voice just wasn't strong enough for what Kurt had proposed. He had strongly disagreed, arguing that voice was beautiful, and no one neither wanted nor expected her to be Rachel.

A sad and humbled Will watched as Quinn’s eyes filled with tears. He was so liberal with praise for Rachel and Finn, but they were the only individuals he highlighted. He always told the kids how good they were, but never individually. How could he have done that to them? When had winning surpassed meaning? He was disgusted with himself.

Mercedes had demanded to sing something _black_ , annoyed by the plethora of show tunes and standards typical of the group. Kurt had countered with the assertion that her voice was not defined by her skin color and that soulfulness was not limited to African Americans, winning the argument by proclaiming that Mercedes herself didn't subscribe to stereotypes, so why did she insist on making herself one?

She had simply cocked her head and blinked at him before resuming her seat and waiting for him to continue. This had shocked Will, that someone could defuse Mercedes so easily. Of course, Kurt had actually listened to her argument before thoughtfully rebutting it, rather than dismissing it outright.

Later, Will could say with certainty that the best performances were those given under Kurt's direction.

Quinn had delivered a haunting rendition of Joan Osborne's  _One of Us_ , her sweet voice underscored with her newfound realization that popularity was a yardstick which, in the end, measured nothing of import. Everyone was beautiful in their own unique way and should be celebrated for it.

It was a hard-earned lesson. Her new humility took everyone by surprise, though there were some who doubted its legitimacy. What no one doubted, however, was the deep friendship that had blossomed seemingly overnight between Quinn and Kurt. It unsettled many, and angered more than a few, but Will thought Quinn and Kurt’s happiness more important.

Mercedes had blown them all away with Kurt's arrangement of  _Danny Boy_ , reducing Tina, Brittany, and Finn to tears. The performance was so scaled back from her usual fare, it was obvious Mercedes was discomfited, but she rose to the challenge. Kurt had insisted she sing acapella, with nothing more than the acoustics of the room supporting her glorious voice.

What was most impressive, however, and Will believed this was a coded message to Rachel from Kurt, was that Mercedes’ delivery was very restrained. There were no runs, no melisma, and she didn’t oversing. Rather than bringing emotion to the song, she allowed the emotion of the song to reveal itself. She even sang without vibrato.

The result was a gorgeous ache that would stay with the group forever.

Santana had surprised and then stunned the entire room with  _I Will Survive_. Kurt had slowed the time of the song and turned it into a ballad. It was still anthemic, but instead getting everyone on their feet, Santana forced her audience to _listen_ to the lyrics rather than merely hearing them. The song became a reflection of her own philosophy and was perhaps the most honest performance she had ever offered.

It also showed how badly Will had neglected her as a resource. Her voice was powerful and moving, and exhibited a far greater range than anyone knew she possessed. He had also clearly and incorrectly categorized her fach. Santana was a contralto, not a mezzo-soprano, and he had been utilizing her all wrong.

Everyone had been shocked when a humble Puck asked Kurt for assistance, and even more by Kurt's acceptance of the request, but the former's performance of  _God Bless the Child_  was absolutely remarkable to behold. He sang with a gravitas none had ever believed him capable, his eyes never leaving Quinn’s for the entire performance. Something was resolved between them in those minutes, and a long-ignored tension began to ease for all of them.

The others were terrific, and Rachel was unsurprisingly fabulous, but none of their performances accomplished what Kurt had managed to mine from his own students.

Overall, Will was happy with the results and heartened by the new alliances which were forming within the group. Quinn, Mercedes, Santana, and Puck had all praised Kurt's mastery of music, particularly his willingness to collaborate with them on songs they normally would not have undertaken, helping them to make the songs their own.

Kurt had made them _shine_ and they were grateful. He had unknowingly reinforced their commitment to Glee and they now felt they truly belonged in their own right, that they had earned their spotlight and were more than glorified backup singers for Rachel and Finn.

As the week progressed, Quinn, Santana, and Puck had flocked to sit around Kurt, who was always with Mercedes. Brittany usually joined them, whether in a show of unity or caprice was anyone’s guess.

Will often arrived before meetings to find the six of them rehearsing on their own for Regionals, pleased to hear that their harmonies were even tighter, their choreography even more in sync. For their part, they mostly ignored Will's presence, seeking out Kurt for advice or commendation.

Kurt was often flustered by the attention, but offered solid constructive criticism when prompted and lavish but truthful praise when it was warranted. He was finally coming in to his own, which was why Will was so nervous about their final practice.

He had maneuvered the performances specifically so that Kurt would go last. He was sure Kurt had selected his piece early and most likely had been practicing it religiously throughout the week. Now, he was going to force the boy to lay aside all of his preparation and throw caution to the wind.

If Will knew anything about Kurt, it was how much the boy disliked surprises. He had counted on the fact his plan would not be well-received, but he had no idea just how resistant the boy would be, nor the resentment and anger his words would incite.

"But I don't understand," Kurt said, not for the first time. His upset was obvious as he began to vibrate with barely-concealed fury.

This was exactly what Will wanted. The mask was falling away. The façade Kurt had so carefully crafted to present to the world to safeguard his feelings was beginning to waver.

He wanted Kurt to peel away the veneer of nonchalance and bravado, to expose himself fully as the amazing artist he knew the boy truly was. In order to do that, however, Kurt would have to be forced.

"Kurt," Will said gently, "you're a gifted singer, one of the best we have and, frankly, one of the best I've ever come across. It's important for you to understand that I recognize this."

"Okay," was the blank response, void of emotion and filled with disbelief.

Will sighed, knowing his words were falling on deaf ears and his heart breaking with the realization that he was responsible for it. "The problem is that you're overly concerned with the technicality of the music, with being perfect."

"Isn't that the point?"

"No," Will said, slowly shaking his head, incredulous that the boy actually believed this given what he had accomplished with the others. "Kurt, you can hit all the notes; that's not the issue."

"So what  _is_  the issue?"

"The  _issue_  is that you hold back, all the time. You have a tremendous gift, Kurt, but you and I both know there's far more to you than what you've been giving me, and I want it all."

Kurt frowned and averted his eyes, wrapping his arms around himself. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," Will argued. "I've heard your practices," he added, slightly blushing over his admission he been spying. "So let's cut the crap and get to the point. You're singing far below your potential. That was patently obvious during your performance of  _Defying Gravity_."

He nodded when Kurt scowled and dropped his head.

"I don't know why you threw the song to Rachel," he continued, "and I'm not going to pry, but you're damn good, Kurt. You’re _great_ , a lot better than I think even you realize. Your range is far beyond what you've been doing in the group practices. At least three-and-a-half full octaves, possibly four."

Kurt swallowed heavily and opened his mouth to interrupt.

Will held up a hand to stave off the objection he knew was coming. "I admit this is the nature of Glee. We sing in parts and you're most comfortable as a countertenor, but we both know you're capable of _far_ more than that. You're classically trained. You're doing that training an injustice by not utilizing your gift to the best of your ability."

Kurt shrugged. "So I'll sing some parts in tenor."

“No,” Will said, “that’s not going to cut it. If I’ve learned anything this week, it’s that I need to look deeper at all of you, to who you really are and not just who I believed you to be. Your range is _insane_ , Kurt. You’re comfortable as a countertenor, but you can hit notes from bass to soprano. Do you understand just how rare that is?

“You can literally sing _anything_. No one else here can make that claim. So let’s confront what this is really about. You’re scared. You’re scared of opening your mouth and letting those notes free. You’re scared of losing control, not only of your voice, but of letting us see who you really are.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Will barely managed not to flinch at the icy tone. He hadn’t realized until just this moment what a formidable man Kurt Hummel truly was. He grimaced and rubbed a hand over his face, determined not to let the boy try to disappear once more behind the mask.

"Please do me the courtesy of believing me in possession of a brain," he snapped. "You can do  _more_ , Kurt. So why aren't you? And I'm not just talking about range, here. You've pigeonholed yourself into this role of countertenor Broadway wannabe."

He raised a brow. "Am I really supposed to believe you can't sing opera, or jazz, or the blues? That you don't listen to, love, and have mastered other genres of music? That your only interest in popular music is the divas who sing the songs, rather than what the songs say? I want you to go beyond your comfort zone and deliver something that's  _you_ and _only_ you."

Kurt grunted. "To what end?"

Will sighed. This wasn't going as he had planned and Kurt was absolutely determined to remain obstinate. If the boy wasn't going to break out of his shell willingly, it was time to force the issue, no matter how painful.

"Fine. You know what the problem is with you and Rachel?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"You're right, and here it is: I don't believe anything you sing."

Kurt reeled back as if struck.

Will could see how badly the words hurt. "You've put yourself into this ridiculous competition with Rachel, and I don't understand why. You are both technically perfect singers, you both consistently deliver flawless performances, but they create no emotional resonance within me.

“I'm invited to watch you sing, but not to participate in the experience of what you're singing. It's unsatisfying and boring. Don’t think I’m blind to Rachel. I see her for what she is. She’s an automaton. She gets up and gives a flawless performance of whatever song she's covering, but she’s merely a vessel. She’s limited, Kurt, by genre and ability."

He paused. “But you? There’s no limit to what you can do. Yes, you rearrange your music, you rewrite your lyrics, and your performances are packed with emotion, but the emotion is never _yours_. It's a character. It’s what you believe others see in you. It’s what you _want_ them to see. Instead of allowing them to validate your talent, you're allowing them to validate their perceptions of you. As beautiful as your performances are, and they’re gorgeous, they’re dishonest.”

Kurt swallowed heavily and set his jaw. "Well," he said stiffly, "I'm sorry you feel that way."

"So am I, especially because I expected more of you."

"And why aren't you telling Rachel these things?" the boy spat. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

"Because she wouldn't be receptive. She's not here to learn, Kurt. She's already satisfied with what her voice can do; she's just looking for an avenue to showcase that." He shrugged. "And I'm happy to provide her one, because she's phenomenal and we need her, but she decided long ago what she wanted and she's not interested in deviating from that path.”

He raised a brow. “You’ll also notice that most of her solos are actually duets. Her voice can be strident. She doesn’t know how to adjust it for the music or her audience. As I said, she’s incredibly talented, but she’s also limited. Rachel is a wonderful singer but, Kurt, _you_ are a true vocalist. That's incredibly rare. There's no limit to what you can do, if only you'd allow yourself.

“That’s why I’ve never said anything, because there’s nothing I can do to help you until you’re willing to admit you need it. Rachel is limited by her artistic choices. You’re limits are self-imposed.”

"Stop it," Kurt whispered, his eyes wetting as he slowly began backing away. " _Please._ "

"No," Will said, surging forward and grabbing the boy's shoulders. "You need to hear this. You're  _so_ good, Kurt. I believe in you. I want you to do well because I know you can. You are better than this club, than this school, than this town. Rachel will succeed, not only because of her talent, but because of her confidence."

He paused again. "Maybe that only extends to her musical ability, I don't know, but it's far more than anything you have. She's the best at what she does, but you haven't even begun to discover what you can do. And I want to be around when that happens."

Kurt forced himself to raise his eyes and meet those of his teacher. "Do you really believe that? You really believe that much in me?"

Will was careful to show no emotion, but the utter disbelief in the boy's voice was devastating.

"I do, I absolutely do, but what I think or believe is not important. What's important is that  _you_  believe it, because you won’t improve until you do." He cleared his throat. "So this is what's going to happen: you're going to forget about whatever you had planned to sing today. You're not going to play it safe anymore, not in this room.

“This is about music, Kurt. It's not about clothes, it's not about orientation. It's not about Rachel or Mercedes or witty comebacks. Today is about you and that _voice_. There will be no backup singers. You won't hide behind the piano. You're going to stand in the center of this room and you're going to sing your ass off.

“I don't care if you sing to me, to Finn, or to the entire room. If you want to sing to your mother, then you sing to her and make damn sure that she can hear you, wherever she is. Sing to yourself. Sing to whomever you like, but make me believe it, Kurt. Make me  _feel_  it."

The boy's eyes dropped to the floor. "I … I don't know if I can do that."

"Oh, I have no doubt you can. The question is whether you'll allow yourself. This week, you helped four people begin to find their unique voices, and now it's time for you to find your own. This isn't about what you sing, Kurt, but  _how_  you sing it. I'm not looking for perfection. I don't care if you go off-key. I don't care about anything other than feeling what you feel in that moment."

Kurt bit his lip, sighed softly, and was silent for several long moments. "I strenuously object to your teaching methods," he said finally, "no matter how valid they might be."

Will smiled. "Noted."

 

* * *

 

 

Will waited patiently as the others filed into the room, chattering amongst themselves, an occasional raucous laugh escaping someone's lips.

"Where's Kurt?" Mercedes demanded, looking around. When an answer wasn't immediately forthcoming, she put her hands on her hips, narrowed her eyes, and stared at their teacher. "Well?"

He was having second thoughts about what he had asked Kurt to do. While the boy had agreed, it was obvious he had been less than pleased and twice as nervous, disappearing into the deserted men's room at the end of the hall.

Will still believed the idea sound, but Kurt was the type of person who planned out his outfits a week prior to their debuts. Giving him ten minutes to throw together a performance which would be judged, fairly or not, by his peers was perhaps unwise. Maybe he should have discussed this with Kurt earlier in the day rather than ambushing him into a trial-by-fire.

"Is he sick?" asked a frowning Finn, now concerned.

"Kurt's just a little anxious," Will said slowly. "I disagreed with his song choice and gave him a few minutes to come up with an alternative."

"But Quinn and I were going to sing backup for him," said a confused Brittany.

Quinn leveled a glare at Will that Mercedes could never hope to match. It was horrifying.

"I decided he needed to go in a different direction."

Puck laughed. "I'm sure Swishy was thrilled."

"Swishy?" an outraged Rachel repeated. "That's completely offensive!"

"No, it's not," Puck insisted. "It's just a nickname, and he's fine with it."

"Oh, yeah?" Tina asked. "And what's his nickname for you?"

Quinn, Santana, and Mercedes all snorted.

He grinned. "Primordial Ooze." He frowned. "I'm not sure what it means, though."

"What's important is that it's right," Santana snickered.

"Word, girl," Mercedes nodded. They bumped fists.

Puck rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Hey, Mr. Schue! What's the plan for today?"

Will smothered a smile. "Kurt will sing his solo, whatever it is, and then he'll be leaving. He has another, uh, commitment."

Mercedes pulled a face. "He didn't tell me anything about that."

"I guess something must have come up since he last spoke with you,” he lied. “After Kurt's performance, we'll do a brief run through of our routines for Regionals and then the weekend is yours."

Rachel put her hands on her hips. "How come we're not critiquing Kurt's solo? That's not fair. The rest of us had to be critiqued."

"Who cares?" Matt asked. "We all know he can sing. The boy's pitch-perfect."

"Except for that high F."

Mercedes glared and curled her fingers into a fist. "I  _got_  your F right here, white girl."

Rachel's eyes widened and Will thought it a good idea to move on, knowing he would have to offer them something to drop the subject. He peered over his shoulder to make sure the door was closed.

"Guys, gather around."

Warily, they did.

"What's going on?" Santana barked. She crossed her arms defensively across her chest, as if by doing so, she could ward off whatever she didn’t want to hear.

Will sighed. "Kurt is … very upset with me." He held up a hand. "Not now, Mercedes. And to answer your question, Rachel, we won't be critiquing Kurt's performance today because I spent forty minutes with him earlier this afternoon, giving him a detailed analysis of all his performances from the past few months."

Puck blinked. "Dude."

"Um, was that a good idea to do right before he has to sing a solo?" a hesitant Artie asked.

"That's harsh, yo," Matt said, shaking his head.

"Is he okay?" asked an anxious Finn.

Rachel gave their teacher a hard look. "Will it help him?"

He nodded. "I think so, yes."

She nodded slowly in concert. "Good. He's a … good singer." When everyone stared at her, she grimaced. "What? I can admit it."

That counted for a lot where the others were concerned. Rachel had just tacitly implied that Kurt was worthy of her notice. No one truly cared what she thought of them, but if she was acknowledging Kurt was good, she must have actually meant it.

 

* * *

 

 

Kurt entered the room ten minutes later, far paler than usual and visibly shaky. His clothes seemed to hang on him and his hair was disheveled. Brittany immediately understood this was abnormal and became concerned.

The others were startled by how wan he appeared. Santana and Quinn restrained Mercedes when she made to march over to him. Brittany stood and performed an impromptu cheer for the boy, which somewhat broke the tension, though Kurt was oblivious to her efforts. Rachel sat down front, eyes placid and her hands folded in her lap. The rest looked to each other for some sort of cue, but no one had a specific idea.

Will stood and crossed to the piano, where Kurt passed the sheet music to the accompanist without comment.

"Are you okay?" he quietly asked.

Kurt stared at him with large, unblinking eyes.

Will exhaled sharply. "You know what? Forget it. You absolutely do not have to do this."

The offer of escape snapped Kurt out of his fog. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, I can do this. I'll do it."

"Are you sure?"

A shaky nod.

"Okay," Will said reluctantly. "Can I do anything?"

Kurt stepped onto his tiptoes. "Can we turn the backlights off?" he whispered into Will's ear. "I just can't watch them watching me."

"Of course." He walked over and turned down the lights. "Strings and percussion, just keep up." He placed a gentle hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Whenever you're ready, okay?"

Another shaky nod.

Will took his seat in the audience.

"You got this, Swishy!" Puck suddenly yelled out.

"Go Kurt!" Tina yelled, bursting into applause, which was quickly picked up by the others.

Their eyes widened when Kurt released a peal of hysterical, shrieking laughter, and gasped when he plastered a horrifying smile on his face. He took another few seconds trying to even out his breathing, intermittently honking a sound which the others thought either to be a cough or a sob.

None of them had ever seen him this upset, not even after a dumpster dive and a ruined outfit. His fright was apparent and they were now scared  _for_  him. Whatever Mr. Schue had said must not have been kind, and Kurt was now terrified of embarrassing himself in an arena he often dominated.

"You can do this, Kurt," Rachel quietly said.

Kurt blinked owlishly and swallowed.

"Okay," he whispered, before nodding to the pianist.

 

* * *

 

 

The introductory measures announced the song to those few familiar with it, who were frankly surprised Kurt had selected it. They were expecting something in the vein of Broadway, not older popular music. They watched in silence as Kurt still struggled to get his breathing under control. Finally, he managed it.

_"I can see you're slipping away from me, and you're so afraid that I'll plead with you to stay."_

He sung more than an octave beneath his usual key and the difference was palpable. His voice was a bit more raw, though still clean and without rasp. His vibrato was slower and slightly unsure, as if waiting for its maestro to seize control of the instrument.

They were familiar with Kurt's phrasing, but this was far more powerful than anything they believed him capable of delivering. Absent was the perfect elocution, the stress on enunciation. It was terribly desolate yet free of melodrama. It was biting. It was cold. They felt, could all but see, the sadness and isolation pouring off him.

He turned sideways and stared down at top of the piano, as if it had the answers he sought. 

“ _But I'm … gonna be … strong.”_ His voice softened and ascended on the last word, as though he were internally debating his ability to deliver. He gave a gentle sigh. “ _I'll let you go your way._ ” 

The quiet defeat in his tone was brutal and his resigned acceptance devastating. This was far more than just a performance. This was personal. It was _real_. Growing increasingly uncomfortable, the audience began to shift restlessly in their seats.

" _Love is gone,_ " he sang dully, shaking his head. He shrugged his shoulders  _"There's no sense in going_ on." He closed his eyes in bitter acceptance. " _And your pity now, would be more than I could,_ " he drew in a ragged breath,  _"bear."_

He wanted to call a stop to this immediately. Demand a cease and desist. This had been a massive mistake on his part. He didn't owe these people anything, least of all a window into his soul, something which would only render him even more vulnerable in their eyes. It was one thing to be bullied; it was something else entirely to be pitied.

And this song was improper. It was too honest, too candid, and far too revealing.

What had he been thinking? How could he sing this song, be this naked, with  _him_  sitting right across the aisle? He had started this, however, and would see it through, if only to prove to himself he was capable.

“ _So I'm gonna be strong. I'll pretend I don't care._ ”

Which was a lie, and an obvious one. What was worse was that he was calling himself out on it in front of everyone, almost all of whom had no idea to whom he was singing or why. He was inviting them to question his most secret thoughts, to witness his most private pain. This was something he had never before allowed. Even his father had been denied this entry.

He was beginning to understand what Schue was asking of him and he resented it, but … in for a penny, in for a pound. He squared his shoulders and nodded to himself, centering his breathing and preparing to belt, a tactic which still made him supremely uncomfortable.

He could do it, especially in the tenor range he was using, but there was every possibility the notes would get away from him or his voice would crack. He wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

“ _I'm gonna be strong and stand as tall as I can. I'm gonna be strong and let you go along, and take it like a man!_ ”

He wasn't strong. He wasn't tall. He wasn't even a man. He was pathetic. A sniveling shell of the person he tried so desperately to be.

He was  _weak_ and never before believed himself to be. He had put himself out there in the most daring and painful way possible, and he had failed. Spectacularly. He had loved without question or restraint, and it had resulted in his own immolation.

It was unbearable, this pain, and he wasn't sure he could endure it. Right now all he wanted was to be free of it. Perhaps this was the best way, despite the pain. Maybe it was the only was he was going to exorcise it.

He took back every awful and vindictive thought he had ever had about Quinn, Finn, Puck, and Rachel, and their strangle quadrangle. It was apparent now he had never truly understood their confusion and anger and hurt. These were feelings that couldn't be ignored, couldn't be shelved away and unpacked later. Nor should they be.

It was omnipresent, hanging over his head like a guillotine, always ready to slice through his denial to the diseased tissue which resided beneath, waiting to be excised.

That time was now. He had been foolish to try and distance himself from it, rather than feeling and confronting it. Besides, who even cared? In the end, what did it matter? Everyone had their sob stories, so what difference did it make if they all heard his? Maybe this was the most normal thing he had ever done.

Fine. If Mr. Schue wanted him to make them feel something, he'd make them feel it.

 _All_ of it.

He drew in a deep breath as the bridge approached.

“ _When you say it's the end, I'll hand you a line. Oh, I'll smile and say, 'Don't you worry, it's fine'._ ”

And indeed he smiled, though it felt a bit Glasgow. Oh, well.

It wasn't fine. He was tired of smiling. He was tired of faking his cheer, tired of being the son, the best friend, the token fag. He was so _tired_ of being himself, and he was so _very_ tired of being alone.

He didn't even bother to blink back the tears, and it was only when they began rolling down his face did he stop to wonder why they were so long in coming.

“ _And you'll never know, darling, after you kiss me goodbye!_ ”

His voice ascended key after key, making entire measures into one stunning glissando. He was almost proud of himself.

There hadn't even been a goodbye. Just a muttered apology about how they were too different, wanted different things. It was true, he now realized, much to his chagrin. It was _all_ true, but it didn't negate everything he had felt and continued to feel.

It didn't erase the joy and exhilaration he knew he would never feel again, at least not with _him_ , with the _right_ person, or so he had believed at the time. And, were he honest with himself, who he  _still_  believed to be the right person.

But it was just one of those things, not meant to be. Oh, so sad, so tragic. Or so he had been told. He wasn't given a choice in the matter. In so many things, he had never been given a choice.

What he had done? Where had he gone wrong? Had he been too demanding? Too queeny? Too clingy?

That was what hurt the most, all the unanswered questions, the unspoken condemnations, and he was left with only himself to blame. It was easier to blame himself; it always had been.

It was easier to accept his own failures while excusing those of others. If only he was a different person. If only he was the right orientation. If only his voice was deeper. If only he had a mother. If only he was better at fulfilling everyone's expectations.

If only, if only.

It was a constant chorus in his head he just couldn't shut out. Maybe one day he'd learn how.

“ _How I'll break down and cry._ ”

So he cried.

He cried as that note was ripped from his gut and he cried as he held it for all it was worth. He felt something move through him, cleansing him, absolving him from whatever sins he had committed, intentional or otherwise.

His voice sounded nothing like he had ever heard before, nothing like his taped performances which he played back obsessively in search of any weakness, any imperfection that could be corrected.

But life was imperfect, and if he could just accept that, maybe he could accept, finally, he was allowed to be imperfect as well.

He didn't sound like himself but, for the first time in so long, he felt as though he sounded completely himself. There was no Glee, no Rachel or Mercedes or anyone else. There was just him, just _Kurt_ , and for once, Just Kurt was enough.

And he didn't give a toss if Just Kurt was crying like a baby; in this time and space, Schue was right.

Just Kurt was fucking  _awesome_.

Schue wanted octaves. He would get them.

He disregarded the sheet music. Didn't care if the band could keep up with the shifts he was about to make. He had stopped hearing them almost immediately after they had begun playing.

His voice jumped an octave into countertenor. “ _Cry!_ ”

A third of the way there. Mezzo next. “ _Cry!_ ”

And now to bring it home. Soprano, full voice, no stop. “ _Cry!_ ”

He even added an extra key jump at the end, not noticing the band had stopped playing two measures previous. They stared at him in awe.

He kept control of his breath and pacing. By the grace whatever alleged deity might be up there looking down upon the interesting ants, he managed to do it all in full voice and in one breath. He turned the final note into a fermata and held it for an astonishing fifteen beats, a personal best. Good for him.

And if his voice cracked at the end? Well, chalk it up to artistic expression.

Silence reigned.

No one was saying anything. He looked down at his shoes. Had it been that bad? Had it been good? Did they care at all? Did he? He wasn't so sure anymore.

"I hope that's what you were looking for," he whispered, shrugging an unsure shoulder. He didn't even know to whom he was speaking. He grabbed his bag and fled the room.

As the door closed behind him, whatever spell had been cast was immediately rescinded. Will stumbled over and flipped on the lights, shock and wonder plain on his face. His breathing was ragged and his eyes suspiciously red.

"Holy _shit_ ," Rachel gasped, not bothering to wipe away the tears and snot running down her face. “That was brilliant. He is _brilliant_."

"That was fucking incredible," Puck whispered, shaking his head. " _Fucking_ incredible!"

No one was surprised by the tears pouring down the faces of Mercedes or Tina, nor were they surprised by Brittany's whimpering or Finn's quiet sniffling. If anyone had been paying attention, perhaps they _would_ have been startled by Santana's heaving, breathless sobs and Artie’s keening.

Quinn's face betrayed no emotion. She was as reserved as Kurt and, for him to be this open, he would need her to keep herself in check. She was furious. She would find who had done this to him and make them pay.

Mike Chang sat very still, conscious of the vicious glare Matt Rutherford was leveling his way, though his eyes remained blank. His hands, however, curled into fists so tight his nails drew blood from his palms.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


End file.
